Page 24 of Between the Lines

“That would rob me of about ten minutes or so of your time. Right?”

A smile flashes across his face, there and gone again. “Yes, I guess it would. I don’t think you’ve lived in Los Angeles before, right? If I remember correctly.”

“No, I haven’t. Just been here a few times.” I give him a professional smile. The allusion to our previous conversation won’t throw me off. “But you’re born and raised here. Partly in Brentwood, just down here, and then in Malibu. Is that true?”

He gives a single nod. “It is.”

“Do you still have a house out there? In Malibu?”

“Yes.” His hands tighten around the wheel. “Would you like coffee, Charlotte? We can stop on the way to the office.”

“Oh, I don’t need?—”

“I do.” Judging by the faint shadow along his jaw, he hasn’t shaved today. “Let’s make this little meeting more interesting.”

“Coffee makes things more interesting to you,” I say. My voice comes out dry, and damn it, I don’t mean to be bantering here. I’m supposed to be forming a working relationship.

Aiden chuckles. “I’ll think more clearly after I have some, yes.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say. So, he’s fielding questions about where he grew up. Something I alreadyhaveinformation about in my papers.

Lovely.

Time for a different tactic.

I look past him, out the window. “Do you take the same route to work most days?”

“I do, yeah,” he says. “I often stop on the way at a cafe in Westwood on the way and pick up coffee. Best coffee in this area of town.”

“A daily ritual?”

“I suppose you could say that,” he says. “How do you take yours?”

“My coffee?”

His eyes flit to mine, like he’s the interviewer. I’ve lost control of this conversation. “Yes.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Never?” There’s a faint thread of amusement in his voice. “One might think you’re a sober-living kind of person, but I know you drink alcohol.”

Another mention of that night.

“I’ve just never learned to enjoy the taste. I like the smell, though,” I say like an absolute idiot.Establish rapport, Charlotte.

“What other state-altering substances have you tried, Ms. Gray?” His voice is a steady drawl, his head back against the headrest.

“I didn’t know I was the one having a memoir written about me,” I tell him.

His lips curve. “Maybe I want to get to know my memoirist a bit better.”

“Worried about my professionalism?” I ask. “Don’t worry, your team is welcome to drug test me any day. Aside from the occasional glass or two of wine, I’m not even a drinker.”

“Not even a drinker,” he repeats, the small smile still there on his face.

“How about you? Any substances you regularly abuse?” I let my little notepad slide down behind my outer thigh, trapping it against the door. For whatever reason, he wants this conversation to be a game.

Very well. I can play.

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